


To Ride Amongst The Stars

by Halfway_To_Reality



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Animagus Harry Potter, Animal Transformation, Dragon Harry, F/M, Imperius, M/M, Mind Control, Multiverse, Shapeshifter Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4594956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halfway_To_Reality/pseuds/Halfway_To_Reality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War changes all who live through it, some more than others, but for Loki war was what set him on the path he rides today. War sent him to ride amongst the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Ride Amongst The Stars

It was a dark and stormy day in New York, where the cleanup of the Chitauri attack was barely in its fledgling steps, but here, in the uninhabited mountains of Romania, the sky shone bright through vegetation that grew in abundance. Trees lay scattered about the countryside in disorganized clusters, with low grasses filling the space in between. The closer one got to the peaks, the lower the trees and grass grew, until, at the very top, grass gave way to moss and pines reached their full height at the knees of zealous hikers. The brilliant sunlight made mica ;glitter in meager veins throughout the exposed mountain rock, the light reflecting an opalescent rainbow of colors.

Of course, none of this light reached where he sat in the morbid depths of an abandoned catacomb, vacantly awaiting his next orders. They were the only thing that mattered to him anymore. The tasks  they gave him brought him pleasure, which was something almost as rare to him as true happiness. Both were things he had sought for decades.

On Asgard, he had tried his best to please his father, his mother, his brother, his people. He tried everything he could, and though his plans would sometimes go awry, the consequences of his mistakes were never as dire as Thor and his attempts at heroism. Unlike his not-brother, his miscalculations sometimes bore unintended fruit. Such as the time he had shorn Sif's hair; he may have lost the dwarves' wager, and had his lips sewn closed for a brief time, but that excursion had gifted Odin with his favorite spear, Gungnir, and Thor with his treasured Mjolnir. Even then, in his suffering, his father, his brother and his friends, none would acknowledge him save to laugh at him, and taunt him of his misfortune.

The stone, grey and slate-like without the sun’s rays to reveal its glow, skittered across the ground in jagged shards as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

Desperation had overtaken him, and in a last ditch effort, he attempted one last venture, tried doing as Thor would. He thought that maybe, by destroying their kingdom’s--  his father's enemy permanently, and embodying his favored son, he would gain acceptance, but again, the only recognition that came was unwanted. The admittance that he was not even a true son of Odin. He was but an unwanted cuckoo chick, hiding in another's nest. In that moment it became obvious to him he would never do right by his not-father. His not-mother would never see him with the same eyes as her true son. For even if his not-brother was pained when he dove into oblivion, it was not for the loss of he, but for the loss of his 'brother', his blood.

Uneven cavern walls wore at his palms where he dragged them, a weary movement needed both to keep his bearing in the pitch lighting of the cave, and to keep him standing. Dirt was slowly etching itself into the lines and scratches of his skin, and the glamor he usually held so closely fell, revealing cobalt skin almost black in the darkness of his surroundings. 

The darkness of the abyss had been just as he was told; All encompassing, powerful, demanding, but misleadingly, not all-consuming.

No stars or planets floated in the void, but he floated still, uninjured by the black. 

How long he had floated adrift amongst the unknown, he wasn't sure. It was impossible to tell time in the in-between; for there was nothing to watch age, there were no worlds to watch grow, no people to see change and evolve, just empty unfeeling cold. Cold and black, an endless shade broken only by the rapidly fading green of armor with no purpose. Once and again, the strangest thought occurred to him, for with no way for him to tell time, it could be millenia since his fight with his not-family, for all he knew, time could be running backward. If he returned from this vast abyss there was a chance he could return to his once home,and no matter how slim, a chance he could be accepted.

In this moment though, he was quite sure someone has cursed the blood in his chest into lava. It was eating him from the inside out as he stumbled onward. No matter his “immortality” he was still governed by fate’s law, and even if he was a monster he is but a runt of a Jotunn, to be thrown by a true giant, the green oaf, would cause anyone pain.

It was a miracle among miracles when  they happened upon his twisted form in the darkness. Riding on the backs of star whales in a sea of nothing,  they lived in the endless dark. The ones who gave him food and drink, a place to rest for the first, in what could have been a volume, of days. The ones who had given him purpose, befriended him even. 

The ones he failed.

They had offered so much;  They offered him a world, a people to rule, to protect, and watch over. Surely, his father would be proud of him for doing the same duty as he.

They had taught of his new realm's current “protectors”. Shown him their inadequacy, the threat they posed to his people's true safety, true happiness.

They gave him a tool and the knowledge to wield it, and an undeviating path to his world.

All  they asked in return was the expansion of the door  they employed to get him there. For  they too were trapped in the abyss, unable to return to their home. This door, if given to  them , would allow them to return home, yet  they could not retrieve it themselves. The distance was too great to travel as one, and a single entity was all that could go through the portal if opened from the seeking side. To find the door, one from the receiving side would need to go through and create a relay, a task that none of their hive minded inhabitants could accomplish.

For once in his existence he was offered a chance to help another, and gain something at the same time, without pain. His joy could not have been expressed in any language of the known realms. His immediate agreement had been certain.

When he arrived on his new home he expected a great many different reactions; curiosity, fear, and hopefully acceptance. To say he was shocked when he was greeted instead by unmasked violence, would be akin to stating Asgard held three moons in its orbit. His shock froze his facade and his thoughts fleetingly, just enough time to strike back in panic, bolts flying from his staff -  their gift  \- to land among his people.

When the panic settled, and his eyes rose from hysterical haze that held them, he saw the terror in their eyes. He saw their dread, and he understood: they knew no better. They believed themselves free, as though they were not constantly watched for error by their peers. As if they did not fight, did not murder for imagined slights, did not foster unnecessary inequality.

He saw their terror, and he knew pity and sorrow, and from that heartache sprung renewed purpose. He would protect them, enlighten them to stand as equals to the inhabitants of Asgard and the other nine realms. He would allow them to keep their governments and law books at first, but soon they would have no need for either. Morals and belief in their ruler would be all the governing they needed. He would sooth them, teach them patience, but first he must get rid of those who threatened his foothold, his progress.

He gathered those with knowledge of the door and its function, those who knew intimately the ones who judged his people. He brought the door to a place he could wait and think on his next action.

Again his friends offered  their aid, and even as  they lay stranded at distances so far as millennia away,  they offered guidance.  They knew of a way to calm his people, just as with the staff  they were so gracious as to give him. It would allow him to calm each individual in one instant, to return them to their senses and give them back the ability to be spoken to as the sentient race they were.

But in order to do this  they must be closer, or  their gift would be unable to reach the entirety of his people at once. Those who judged were already paranoid, sending more and more of his realm into panic. As a child he had such fear of the unknown as well, so he knew that unless calmed they would hide and strike blindly in their fright.

Of the few he had already awakened had a way to bring his allies not just closer, but directly to their gate. Once  they helped him assuage his people he could offer them rest and safe return to  their home. If, perchance, they no longer wished for the door after  their journey he could use it as Asgard had the Bifrost. He could offer passage to many realms, to employ as necessary, as this door could stay open as long as its user required.

He would be of use to not only his own realm, but to the other nine as well. This would give his world influence in disputes between realms, and, hopefully be a base for trade.

Before he could enact this plan, he would have to open a gateway to the abyss. A task, while not difficult in theory, had many potential risks. One mistake, one fact learned too early, and all of his hard work would go to ruins.

His allies were so kind as to plan out a route of action, but while it would be more… conductive, it would allow the faulty protectors of his realm to retain their power. That was not be acceptable. He needed to act, and act swiftly, the guards were swarming. Instead he plotted, he would separate those gathered to stop him while his followers assembled the door. 

Albeit doing so would frighten more of his people, it would be a necessary cost. Once they calmed, the defeat of their past guardians would serve only to show the strength and dependence of his new reign.

He had barely begun to act when his not-brother had, quite literally, snatched him from his would-be capturers. He could not help but stare as the boy ranted of madness and returning to his past, the place where he had never reached even adequate.

To his favor, the unjust judges extracted him from his presence before uncorked rage could ruin his work. Against his favor, this gave him time to develop the same pity he held toward his people, toward his not-brother. How could the man not see how pointless this fighting was, he was not attempting to harm anyone.

He would have to teach his wayward not-sibling, but first he must tend the needs of his people.

His plan played out well, even if he had lost the archer. The door was finally ready, and his friends were waiting with assistance. His anticipation grew by the second. Again, his not-brother and the judges’ puppets surged forth to impede his progress. The only option he could choose was to defend, and so he, along with his allies, did their best to corral erratic citizens and defend themselves at the same time.

It was this dual focus that spelled the downfall of their endeavour.

His allies were blown from the sky; whether they survived he knew not. He only knew he could not stay there. So he fled. Running in darkness yet again to wait a contact that may never come. Again he had failed, only this time the cost lay bitter on his tongue.

He cost those who wished him happiness their lives, their one chance at returning home, and sentenced them to another brief eternity in-between.

They would stay forgotten in nothingness while he, forgotten as well, had life, had opportunity. Ugly emotions welled within him. He was supposed to help them, help himself! Instead his arrogance gave the enemy his very intentions in the form of the archer. He was beaten and injured, lying alone once more in darkness. His purpose gone.

His battered legs carried him farther into shadows, down winding tunnels and unfinished trenches, while his feet stumbled over rock and rubble.

He, in instinct and desperation, relied again on the magic that had led to his condemnation on Asgard. He begged for safety and assistance in his plight. It brought him here, a catacomb with no visible exit or entry. A tomb or a sanctuary to him and his crumbling cause. There was magic in the ground here. An old magic, laced with power and forged by time. It felt like the position Odin had once held in his childhood eyes, well worn, as though it had borne the weight of the realms and lived on the share their secrets. Its weight was heavy like the woolen blanket gifted to him by a Midgardian dilettante, and just as that blanket, it produced a steady warmth that soothed his distraught mind. It eased the sting of his failure and gave him a distraction from such depressing thoughts.

A few times in his past he met magics so old they had gained life of their own. If this was one such magic, it might be able to assist him or, at the very least, provide him with a companion in this inky blackness.

He walked the tunnels for what felt like years, but could only be hours. His boots, once so sturdy, were rubbed raw by the cold stone floor.

The caverns he saw in this catacomb were unlike any he had seen. The walls were not rippled as those made by molten rock would be, yet smooth as though drilled away by rushing water, but there were no stalagmites which would have formed as the water left either. They could not have been made by some burrowing creature either, as, according the the sheer size of the tunnels, there were no creatures large enough to do so.

He knew of no natural phenomenon that would cause the strange ebb and flow of the tunnels, and no creature would make such a thing to then seal and abandon it. 

So he hobbled, observing and noting new thoughts, as his mind wandered. He thought of Asgard, of his Allies. He saw strange symbols he couldn't quite make out in languages he did not know. 

He daydreamed of the world he would have built, and the punished his not-father might hold for him upon capture.

He was so caught up in his rambling feet and his rambling thoughts, he did not feel the rumbling of the old magic around him. It rose and stretched like a cat awakening from a long nap, blinking away sleep and bathing itself in a puddle of sun. The being itself could not freely move as it’s mind did, so it resettled itself and set about exploring its surrounding in spirit. It was while the being studied the shape of one particular formation of rocks that Loki, battered as he was, stumbled his way into its curiosity.

It watched intrigued as the once god, now monster, muttered to himself and wandered through the ground. It poked at the flickering worms that hugged the man's thoughts, and batted them away when they would have leapt to its own. It knew what the worms were, it had seen them before. It also knew the pain brought by forcefully removing them was nothing to sneeze at, but leaving them to do the damage they were meant to would only leave the man in a worse state. With a sigh that shook the very mountains above, it steeled itself, and set about removing them.

Meanwhile, loki had just ambled his way into the largest cavern he had yet to see in this maze. With the dregs of his magic, which had returned to his control as his glamour fell, he cast a small charm allowing him to see the true magnificence of the shadowed hall. And what a hall it was. Unlike the other carvings he had seen the ones here were fully intact. intricate swirls of runes looped and dove across every surface. Rocks carefully arranged filled the space in the center of the room, designed with depictions of worlds and peoples he had never imagined let alone glimpsed. Among them he saw beautifully carved renditions of Vanaheim, artfully textured with the oceans and fields the realm was known for. Just beyond it rested Alfheim, crafted from clear crystal it seemed to glow from the inside, dimly lighting the cavern. But where was Asgard? A frown marred the already dirtied expanse of Loki’s face. Certainly whoever crafted this magnificent piece wouldn’t dare exclude a power such as Asgard. Releasing his tedious hold on the wall he staggered farther into the chamber, he needed a better look.

There were no windows to allow light into these subterranean chambers, how had the inhabitants, as there must have been inhabitants, managed to create such beauty in darkness. Noticing a raised shape near the center of the room he stumbled closer to investigate. There were ridges sticking out on all sides of the object, they could have been to hold lamps or some other light source.

Then why would it be so uneven. Being a dabling craftsman himself, as every practitioner of the mystic arts should be, he knew the importance of an artifact's design. So why was this one so, so disregarded, so unbalanced. It made no sense, why would craftsmen so precise place the only light source off center.

His gaze swept the room, as if he could glean an explanation from its four walls. Glancing back to the prodigiously made ceiling, he sucked in a sharp gasp, his ribs protesting the sudden movement. There, half collapsed, hung half of, what once must have been, a stunning depiction of Asgard. Delicate towers and bridges masterfully balanced upon the surface of an iridescent material. It glimmered a shone fluid in appearance, the edge where the rest of the depiction lay was jagged and empty. Suspended in its own destruction it hung regal as a dying stag. Directly above what he now knew was not a light source, but the ruin of a masterpiece. 

He longed to be closer, to see the mastery put into this piece in its full glory. While the ceiling was out of reach, the other half of Asgard lay just scant meters away. Eyes alight with curiosity, Loki shuffled tediously in his urge to be closer. His feet wobbled, precarious as the carvings above him as they slipped over pebbles and loose stones. His ankles barely strong enough to support his weight, and still he struggled on towards his objective.

He was barely a yard away when suddenly the ground heaved beneath him.

Rocks, knocked from precarious holds on the walls above, shattered as the crashed to the floor. Dust rose from the ground in clouds, as he staggered on faulty legs. The walls rumbled a battle cry in their war to stay upright. Pebbles rained on his head and shoulders, armor once thought useless in this serenity useful again, protecting him from his inanimate foes. The roof groaned and cracked, the stress from years of weight having weakened its structure. The carving of Asgard gave final creak, a death rattle, as its hazardous hold snapped, and it fell from the sky with a thundering boom.

The clattering of pebbles and other miscellaneous debris echoing in the silence left by the cacophony of sound, and Loki lay, eyes wide in panic, in the settling dust. He could hear the shuddering of the caverns beyond, the sound of crumbling stone reverberating through the tunnels and halls, fading to background noise as shockwave spread.

He panted, eyes darting from side to side as if he could see the next quake coming, but it was a useless endeavour. For even if he saw the quake from miles away he had no means to protect himself. His body was broken, his magic run dry, and his weapons in enemy hands. He was defenceless, as weak as he had been all those millennia ago on the ice fields of Jotunheim. Frustration bloomed in his gut, and his eyes welled with water that he knew was not from the dust settling on his face.

Slowly the pebbles stilled, settling into their new positions on the pitted floor, and the adrenalin that had coursed through Loki’s bloodstream moments before, settled with them.

Silence echoed, almost obscene in the lie it held. The lie that nothing life threatening happened just moments before. Muscles relaxing slowly, he allowed his body to relax, almost melting onto the dirt below him. His breathing slowed from shuddering gulps of air, and his blood no longer beat a pressed rhythm in his ears. His fingers drooped defeated, brushing the dirt aside. His legs spread straight before him, feet turned out, no longer holding the strength to keep them upright.

How pathetic he was, he couldn’t even protect himself from dirt. How could he hope to rule as such a weakling. He needed power to be respected, without it he would never be able to trust his subjects to do as he decreed. 

Power…

His eyes snapped open, the building pressure the only warning he had as the magic of the catacombs gripped his being.

"You may thank me when you wake," a voice boomed in the space between Loki's ears, shooting pain through his already rattled mind. His wilted arms tried to cup his pounding head as he screamed silently, but they would not move. 

And for the long night following, all he knew was agony.

**  
**  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while I was sick, and on medication that makes me woozy, so I'm pretty sure there are at least ten words that don't make sense. If you spot any please tell me so I can change them, along with misspellings and incorrect grammar. If it doesn't make any sense either way tell me that to so I can work on it.  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
